At my old school, I saw the effects of bullying firsthand; I felt them. I felt them in ways I can never forget, never erase. My heart begins to thunder in my chest, and my palms grow so sweaty I have to put down my fork.
I glance back at Miranda.
“If you report them, that’s it,” she says, exhaling sharply. Her eyes stray over to the Idols’ table again, watching as Andrew approaches and starts up a conversation with Tristan. “They will end you.”
My mouth flattens into a thin line, but I don’t doubt that what Miranda’s telling me is true. These kids, they have more money than the GDP of a small country. Shit, than several small countries combined. If I think that has no influence over the administration and staff, then I haven’t learned as many hard life lessons as I think.
Closing my eyes, I sit stone-still for a moment, thinking. There has to be a way out of this; there’s always a way out if you know how to be patient and look. For the moment, I’m drawing a blank, but give me time, and I’ll work it out.
There’s a reason I got chosen for this scholarship, and it wasn’t my ability to roll over and take it.
No, I’m a fighter, always have been.
I just think I’m going to have to fight harder than I ever have before.
As my first week at Burberry Prep progresses, it seems like the Idols have forgotten about me.
I know in my gut that’s not true.
Bullies don’t quit until circumstances force them to. It’s the nature of the beast, and humans are the worst animal of all. Smart enough to manipulate, stupid enough to care. My mind flickers with images best left forgotten: ribbons of silken red, the smell of wet pennies, peaceful blackness closing in.
Running my tongue across my lower lip, I double check my schedule. The first and third Friday of the month I have my Monday schedule; the second and fourth Friday I have my Tuesday schedule. The last Friday—if there is one—is a day off.
Period 3: Government, History, and Civics, Room CH3
The CH in CH3 stands for chapel, meaning the classrooms located in the building attached to the old chapel. Miranda disappeared during the second half of lunch, but I think I know my way around now. Following the maze of hallways, I slip unnoticed by the other students—the Plebs, as they’re supposedly called—enjoying my anonymity. Only the Idols and their Inner Circle look at me sideways. Nobody else cares.
I pass unscathed into the classroom, breathing a sigh of relief as I slide into the chair in the back corner. Tristan Vanderbilt is the only member of the Bluebloods—their term, not mine—that shares this class with me and Miranda. He glances up when I walk in, his blade gray eyes slicing through me before he returns his attention to the short, raven-haired girl in front of him.
In the past week, I’ve seen him with a good dozen different girls, flirting and smiling and leaning in close. Even when the guy’s trying to get laid, that arrogance of his sits like a mask over his handsome face. He never seems to let his guard down, or show any emotion that isn’t tainted with superiority and entitlement.
Just looking at the jerk makes me sick to my stomach.
“Sorry I’m late,” Miranda breathes, sliding into the chair next to me. Her eyes flick up to Tristan, and he meets her gaze dead-on before returning his attention back to his newest conquest. Miranda’s cheeks burn pink, and I raise an eyebrow.
“Don’t apologize. You’ve sat with me during every class and every lunch period for the entire week. You’re not going to get, like, put on probation by the Bluebloods for that, are you?”
Miranda pulls her iPad out of her bag and sets it on the desk. The tech policy here is crazy strict, so all the laptops and tablets are school-issued and locked down on a private network. It’s insane. I miss my phone like crazy, but today after school, I get it back for the weekend.
Even a digital escape from Burberry Prep sounds like heaven right about now.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so since Creed is my brother …” Miranda trails off, and exhales, swiping her hand across her forehead before tossing a genuine smile my way. “I know he’s been a royal prick to you, but he’s pretty overprotective when it comes to me. Once, back in middle school, this guy stood me up for a date, and Creed held me while I cried. After I fell asleep though, he went over to the boy’s house and punched him.” Her smile gets a little wider, and I smile back.
That is, until I realize that Tristan’s standing directly in front of my desk, this enormous shadow collapsing the good-natured humor of the moment. I glare up at him in challenge. I’m not afraid of anyone, not even billionaire boys like Tristan Vanderbilt.
“Party tonight, Mandy,” he says, his face a cold, cruel mask. “You gonna be there?”
“Is Marnye invited?” Miranda echoes, and although I appreciate her trying to stand up for me, I cringe on the inside. Tristan lets his eyes swing over to me, his gaze darkening with distaste. He really and truly seems to hate me, and I can’t seem to figure out why.
“There’ll be enough willing girls at the party; we don’t need Working Girls there, too.” His delivery is ice-cold, and somehow, that makes his hatred of me even worse. It’s a cold, empty loathing that settles across my skin like salty fog off a quiet sea.
“She’s my friend, Tristan,” Miranda says, but he’s already turning away, dismissing the conversation before it’s even begun. With a sigh, she turns back to me. “If you want to go to the party, Marnye, we’ll find a way to make it work.”
“I don’t think I want to,” I say, watching Tristan’s back as he makes his way over to the dark-haired girl again. “Go, I mean. I don’t want to go.” My eyes flick over to Miranda, watching as she settles into her seat with her iPad on her lap. “Watching that guy hit on every available girl at the party, not my thing.”
“The parties here are epic though,” Miranda says, lifting her eyes up from the screen as our professor calls for the class’ attention. She’s talking to me, but she’s distracted. I may not have known her for long, but I can already tell. “You can’t go through your entire high school career without going to any. I’ll talk to Creed after class.”
I open my mouth to tell her not to bother, but class has already started, and if there’s one thing I do know about my career at Burberry Prep, it’s that my grades are more important than any party, any bullshit from entitled rich boys. But if Miranda wants to try to get me in, I’ll go, if only for the experience.
And what an experience it turns out to be.
My new apartment is located on the bottom floor of the chapel building, as opposed to Tower Three like all the rest of the students. While they enjoy penthouses and sprawling studios with views of the ocean, I’m placed in the old janitor’s quarters. Doesn’t bother me. Honestly, the one bedroom, one bath space is twice as large as the Train Car back home.
“Spoiled rich brats,” I mumble, flopping onto the edge of my bed and putting my face in my hands. Walking these halls is like running a gauntlet; I’ve never been so exhausted in all my life. “I would’ve been fine with a regular sized dorm.” Throwing my arm across my eyes, I take a breather before sitting up and turning my phone on.
Every Friday after third period, the entire student body gets their phones backs. Until then, phones are banned on campus. If anyone needs to make a call, they’re required to check in with the vice principal. Burberry Prep is hardcore. Supposedly, taking away technology helps students focus on their studies and cuts down on bullying. I’d say sure on the first premise … and most definitely not on the second.
Sitting up, I cast a glance around my new apartment. All the furniture, including the bed, was purchased via the scholarship fund, and while I’m sure it’s a far cry from what my fellow students have in their rooms, it looks like luxury to me.
My headboard’s almost as tall as the ceiling, this lavishly tufted white velvet arch with crystal sconces on either side. It sets the tone for the whole room, this effortless elegance in creams and grays, draped across the ancient stone floors and walls with an expert’s touch.
“Okay, Dad, let’s see how much trouble you’ve managed to get yourself into during the week.” Powering my phone on, I do a brief check of my email, texts, and social media, but there’s not much to see. A few goodbyes, and greetings from casual acquaintances, but nothing substantial. I haven’t had any real friends since …
No. Banish that thought. I’m not interested in entertaining shadows of the past, not when I have a fairly grim present to deal with.
I dial up my voicemail and wait, smiling when my dad’s voice comes over the line.
“Hey Marnye, it’s Dad”—as if I didn’t know—“I just wanted to see how things were going at your new school.” He pauses, and I tense up, wondering if his voice sounds warbled, wondering if he’s drunk again. “I bet you’re making all sorts of friends. I just hope you don’t have a boyfriend yet, though I’m sure you’ve already gotten offers.” He chuckles, but I frown. Offers? Not so much. Being called a Working Girl and offered money for sex? Yeah, there’s that. “I’m already looking forward to Parents’ Weekend. Until then, keep me in your thoughts. Love you, bye.”
I’m feeling pretty good about leaving Dad alone until I realize that’s the only message he’s left me. Just one voicemail, no texts, no social media tags. My mouth purses into a thin line as I dial our home number and wait. Nothing.
If he’s fallen back into old habits, Dad’ll be at the bar on Chambers. But that’s worst-case scenario. I shoot a text over to our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming, to see if his car’s in the driveway. She’s practically deaf, so she’s the only ninety-seven year old I know of that exclusively uses text messages for communication. She’s also an incorrigible gossip, a Supernatural superfan, and the head of the local neighborhood watch.
When she doesn’t text back right away, I figure she’s probably on one of her Sam and Dean binge sessions, and head over to my new wardrobe in the corner, this towering antique piece with fleur-de-lis designs carved into the decorative arch on the top. Opening it, I get a sharp stab from the blade of reality.